Sixteen Years
by VirgoNash
Summary: Sherlock's birthdays every sixteen years. Includes mentions of TeenLock, Pre-John-Sherlock, and established Johnlock. Please review!
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Sixteen

Sherlock Holmes did not like birthdays. He did not have the patience for them; they were simply an excuse for people to obsess over themselves for a day. It is no miracle and is it something to frivol over, that you survived another year, nor should it be treated so. It is simply an excuse for a party, which, unfortunately, Sherlock's mother is very fond of.

Apparently, sixteen is a very important year. Displeased with his requests for books and some rather expensive lab equipment (it was a ridiculous notion, celebrating a birthday, but not one he pretended not to benefit from), Mother had decided to throw him a party and, since Sherlock did not keep friends, all of the most dubiously boring people in his lineage would be dredged from the bottom of the metaphoric familial barrel. The Holmes clan was a large and respected one, his great-grandfather having been the Duke of somewhere-or-another, and it was going to be a disgustingly extravagant, terribly dull, and incredibly annoying show of grandeur and idiocy. Sherlock was forced to come home from boarding school for the weekend, since the party would be at the Holmes Estate, and he would, apparently, need all that time to put on a suit and prepare to make loathsome small talk with one of his ancient aunts.

Presently, he was perched in his bedroom window, a fairly malnourished looking, gangly youth with a mass of unruly, rather annoying black curls that he has tried (and failed) to tame, watching his brother, Mycroft, guide guests inside. They would be milling around in the main hall, and they would exclaim that it has been two long, even though January the eighteenth is barely after Christmas, and Sherlock was not at all looking forward to seeing them. He fidgeted with the noose of his Windsor not, trying to get comfortable in the tuxedo he was being forced to wear. It wasn't that he didn't like dress-clothes- he wore a pair of trousers and a shirt nearly every day- but it was the starched formality of the occasion that made his neck itch and his skin crawl. He had silk in places one should never have silk, and he was not at all pleased with this situation.

"Sherlock, Mummy wants you downstairs," came the call from the door. Mycroft, somehow magically coming from one side of the house to the other in less than two minutes. Ever since Mycroft, seven years Sherlock's senior, had gone to university, he had become ever more contemptuous and posh than before. He had arranged half of this party, and Sherlock had made one too many comments about fabric swatches, and had been seated for dinner between the Uncles Jeremy. Jeremy Holmes, his father's brother, was a bald, fat man with far too many opinions and not enough facts. Jeremy Winchester, his mother's brother, was much the same, save for the fringe of blonde scruff that almost passed as half a head of hair. He would be listening to them argue as he tried to force the food down.

And, as he made his way downstairs, Sherlock new he must have seemed so spoiled to anyone else, but he just had so little patience for these ordinary, silly little people that it was painful to be around them sometimes. Maybe, just maybe, he could stay up here for the whole party, and no one would even notice.

An hour and a half later, he wished he had.

The Uncles Jeremy had finished their food, and where debating some sort of crime book they'd both read. Sherlock would have wandered off, but that would have meant more questions of "How is school going" and nodding while elderly relatives told him he'd "Grown up so fast." From what Sherlock could gather, this ridiculously simple novel was one of the most interesting conversations happening in the room.

"Will they conclude it in the next book, then?"

"Of course. Milton will catch the killer, and we'll finally find out that it was Ms. Stone."

"Of course it wasn't Ms. Stone, a woman couldn't have given a wound like that. It had to be Daryl."

"But it couldn't have been Daryl, he was in-"

Sherlock let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. For as apparently upstanding citizens of Britain both these men were, they seemed perfectly idiotic. He sat back in his seat, running through all he knew about the book. Both Daryl and Ms. Stone had alibis that checked out clean, but Mr. Denier didn't, and while he was the one who called in the body (why call in your own murder?), he could have been simply putting them off of the scent…

"You're both wrong," he stated, exasperated, and the Uncles Jeremy paused, looking up at Sherlock in surprise, as those were the first words that he had spoken to either of them since their greetings. He continued in the same low monotone, "Mr. Denier, the victim's husband, is the murderer. He had motive- the insurance money, the affair he was having with Ms. Stone- a murder weapon- the gun he kept- and an alibi- he called in the murder when he got back from doing the shopping. Why would he call in his own murder? To put them off the scent. Very simple."

The Uncles Jeremy were silent for a moment, and Sherlock thought that maybe he had shut them up when-

"What affair with Ms. Stone?"

"You said she had feelings for him? Well, they were returned, obviously."

"That isn't obvious, I can't see that at all. Have you even read these books."

"Of course you _see_," Sherlock snapped, loosing patience quickly, "You just don't _observe_."

"Well, I think that's complete-"

"_Sherlock_."

The high-pitched call came from just inches behind the boy in question, and he jumped, knowing exactly whom the voice belonged to, and what that meant for him. He was not supposed to make others feel stupid just because he was smarter than them, that was her lesson every time. He rarely took heed of it, but she shared it with him just the same, along with a proper scolding and a rather frightening look. Mother was not a very intimidating woman most of the time, but her steel-grey eyes could work evil magic when she wanted them to.

"Sherlock, may I have a word with you?"

She had several words, not so much with, but _for_ Sherlock, none of them pleasant and none of them flattering, but he scoffed them off, ignoring the blatant insults. She just wanted him to be liked, and he did not care for being liked, so their rivalry would continue.

He wound up, somehow, making his way out of a side door, through the kitchen, out into the back of the estate, where no party-goers would wander and he would not run into any relatives. He wanted to be alone more than anything right now, alone with his thoughts, and he climbed onto a low hanging branch of one of the trees along the path, abandoning his shoes and coat on the bench below and curling against the trunk, hidden by a shadow of leaves, save for one foot handing below.

He was alone, gloriously alone, for a few moments, but quickly interrupted when-

"Not enjoying your party?"

Sherlock nearly tumbled off of his precarious perch, searching for the source of the voice. A higher boy's voice, with an Irish lilt just dancing on the edge. What he saw was a round-faced boy about his age in a black vest and a bow-tie, a faint smile in his dark eyes.

"Shouldn't you be taking care of the guests?" Sherlock asked, not entirely nastily.

"On a bit of a break, actually, we get ten minute moments of rest every once in a while," the boy answered, pulling himself up beside the taller boy, "I'm Dick, you must be Sherlock- Cigarette? Go ahead, lighters right here- the birthday boy. You don't seem to be very excited about it, though."

Dick's voice flirted with mocking and seriousness, not committing to either one as he puffed on his cigarette. Sherlock had picked up smoking in the dorm-filthy habit, he should really quit- and found the practice helped him deal with the family stress. It was ridiculous, every time he came home, people were so glad to see him, and, in a way, this was how Mycroft was better than the others; he was never happy to see Sherlock when they were both home at the same time.

"Not my cup of tea, I suppose, these parties," he said simply, seeing the both of them lit up in half-orange cigarette light that faded and glowed, pulsating, "I'm not a fan of… people."

Dick snorted, and Sherlock regretted his words instantly. People didn't like hearing about your distaste for socializing; it made them feel unwelcome. Another lesson from Mother. However, Sherlock was surprised to see the natural smile on Dick's face.

"I hear you on that," he said, "That's why I'm glad I don't live with my family. Too much talking, not enough time to do… I don't know, anything worth while."

"Exactly! Oh, I suppose I'm keeping you, you have a rather short break, don't you?"

"No, not at all, I have at least five more minutes. Chat a while, you seem as if you could use from marginally-above-idiotic conversation."

Sherlock looked over at Dick, who was smiling and looking out from the tree branch, though he could not see very far, and decided it would not be such a terrible idea to stay.

Either that, or face the Uncles Jeremy and their Battle of the Predictable and Poorly Written "Mystery" Novels.

They talked for much more than five minutes. They talked about how neither of them really enjoyed television or films, but they both enjoyed reading. Dick liked theatre, which Sherlock didn't have a taste for, but they found more common ground in science. Sherlock told him about the death of that swimmer a while about, the Powers boy, and how he didn't quite think it was an accident, and Dick pointed out that they had no proof either way.

"But that's right clever of you," he said eyes still wandering around the lawn, "Right clever of you…"

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was pointed out constellations, having taken a recent fascination with astronomy.

"Is that the Big Dipper or the Little Dipper?"

"Big dipper, I'm sure of it. The Little Dipper is a much different angle."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I am."

"Sherlock? Is that you over there?"

Sherlock and Dick stubbed their cigarettes and slipped off the branch quickly, both already blushing at just how much trouble they were going to be in.

"Do you not have a job to attend to, Mr. Brooks?" Mycroft asked, looking down his nose at the boy.

"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," Dick answered, not looked have as abashed as Sherlock.

"And, Sherlock, do you not have guests to attend to?"

Sherlock simply nodded, and Mycroft's indignant scoff was enough to tell them to get back to their places. Mycroft had a tendency of ruining everything.

"Posh bitch," Dick muttered, and Sherlock was surprised by the laugh that rose in his throat. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock," he said with a smile, and Sherlock nodded.

"The same to you," was his obligatory answer, and, as he turned away, he felt a little less alone than he had before.

A little less like he was the only person in the world who wasn't a raging moron.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Thirty-Two

Sherlock Holmes did not like birthdays, and he was the only person in the world who wasn't a raging moron. This was all that ugly Detective's fault- Lestrade, his name was. If the man hadn't thought he was so clever, Sherlock wouldn't be here right now. It was not Sherlock's fault that the Detective's wife was cheating on him, or that his alcoholism was what was affecting his marriage, or that there was no way he was going to keep his hair from going gray much longer (probably hereditary, premature graying, dyeing would just look ridiculous). But no, you discover one body (on an anonymous, rather odd tip from the blog he'd recently started) and call in one murder and stay around to maybe take a look, to see if you can help, and you get arrested for contaminating a crime scene (he'd been wearing gloves, thank you very much.) and under suspicion of murder.

"This is honestly ridiculous," he called as Detective Greg Lestrade approached him, seated neatly in his suit in the middle of the cell's bench, "I'm not a murderer, I was trying to help. I probably already know about this case than you do."

"Well, that's all well and good, but we'll just need to keep you for a few test- don't worry, they won't be too hard- then you should be on your way," the older man told him, checking something off on his paperwork. So that was it, then, they'd decided he was insane? Lovely.

"I'm not insane either," he snapped, "Just smart."

"Of course not, now, what's your name?"

"Sherlock Holmes, and you're prematurely gray and trying to hide it."

The Detective paused, eyebrow raised, and the cop behind him- Officer Donovan, he believed, nearly choked on her breath (rookie, annoying, unlucky in love because of a nasty disposition, endless nagging nearly indisputable).

"Excuse me?" Lestrade sputtered, focusing more intently on the well-dressed man before him.

"Your wife cheats on you, though you can't bring yourself to cheat on her- silly mistake, such sentiment- you drink too much (bags under your eyes, twitching hands, obviously hung-over right now), and you are, presently, deeply unhappy, though all of your reasons are rather petty. I, personally, suggest the meetings on Lexington for the drinking- they did wonders for me there. May I borrow your phone?"  
The Detective must have been so stunned that he actually passed the phone between the bars, and Sherlock snatched it with a smile. As he did so, he took a quick glance over the surface: send buttons used most often (probably doesn't text much, most calls, makes sense for his job), small social life (not many contacts, drinking would inhibit that as well), and another sign for the drinking, scratches around the charging site (Again, makes sense, wouldn't it? Must be hard to find the plug when you're intoxicated). As he opened a new text-message, he rambled off to Lestrade and his pet rookie.

"Going by the footprints, the killer was male, fairly tall, around six feet. It was an act of rage, not random, passionate. He wasn't planning on doing this, he would have been much more careful if he had. The victim, obviously gay, in the closet, since he's married, serial cheater- maybe they had some sort of agreement, you should look into that- probably a lover. You're looking for secretive, fairly young friends of the victim, and someone who was often seen with the, though not well known to the wife. Or, if the wife knew of his affairs, a lover she knew well, one with a temper. You can now be rest assured, can't you, that I am not insane, may I please go?"

Get me out of this jail cell. I feel like a common criminal.

SH

Why don't you wile your way out of there yourself? Aren't you the clever one?

MH

Bitterness and envy are two shades that do not fit you, Mycroft.

SH

As stripes don't fit you. Get yourself out.

MH

…Please?

SH

Give me fifteen minutes.

MH

Detective Lestrade became incredibly understanding after the call from Mycroft's office (the British Bureaucracy, like birthday celebrations, was a ridiculous but lucrative establishment that Sherlock, being the brother of the recently instated British Government, did not pretend to be above), and Sherlock was home within an hour, back to the flat at 221B Baker Street, the flat that Mycroft helped him find after rehab. As much as he disliked his brother most of the time, Sherlock had to admit that he could be very helpful.

It wasn't until he was in the middle of an experiment, a rather boring one, that it struck him, exactly what was off about this day, and it came in the form of a phone call.

"Hello, Mr. Hams, it's Detective Lestrade of the New Scotland Yard. We're sorry to bother you, but we've looked into your… suggestions, and it turns out the wife and the victim _did_ have some sort of a arrangement. He only had one lover, and the wife only knew him as Dick and- the point is, Mr. Hams, is that we'd like to as for your consultation on this case, since you've shown such promise, so if you could pleas-"

"You really shouldn't leave such long and detailed messages, the murderer could have figured out that I had been released, come here, killed me, and been listening for your call, waiting to see how much you knew. Don't do it again. I prefer to text anyway," Sherlock rambled, picking up the phone mid-message, "I'll be at the Yard in ten minutes. Oh, and, Detective? It's Holmes, with an "o," Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective."

"World's only what?"

"Consulting de- it's like a private detective, but I also work with police. I've already done some free-lance work," he explained, already exasperated by police incompetence. Idiots everywhere.

"Right, well, we'll see you then," the Detective said gruffly, then, continuing a bit awkwardly, "And, uh, Mr. Holmes? Your brother asked me to tell you that this is his birthday gift to you."

Sherlock said nothing, hanging up the phone immediately. He was out the door in a moment, whisking into the cold night air and, before him, he saw the maps of London, where the eye could see and where it dare not look, the battleground, falling into place below him.

Best birthday present ever.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Forty-Eight

Sherlock Holmes does not like birthdays. John Watson, his flat mate, his friend, his only friend, brings it up that afternoon when he gets home, aghast, astonished as he comes in the door from the shopping, Tesco bags in hand.

"I got a call from Mycroft while I was out," he states, hands on his hips in that impossible, Mother-Watson pose. After the fall, and the forgiveness that came with his return, Sherlock had become accustomed to this look of extreme disapproval that was not altogether bad. And in recent years, I had gotten even better and worse, the spreading gray hair adding to the matronly effect.

"Did you now? And how is he fairing this winter? I suppose even he can feel the bitterness of the cold this year, or is this like thawing for the Ice Man?"

"He told me what today is."

"Tuesday?"

"Your birthday."

"Oh, that, well not exactly important, is it? It's not a very exciting birthday that you would get all huffy about missing," Sherlock says, a sarcastic half smile still on his mouth. It has been more than ten years of running about London with John, several more of running around alone, and he is proud not to have lost his spark.

Dr. Watson, however, has not lost his ability to sass, either. "We didn't celebrate your fortieth birthday, so I'm getting 'huffy' over it now."

"You thought I was dead on my fortieth birthday."

"Exactly!"

Sherlock looks up at John, taking him in. Aging former soldier, injured in battle. Friendly and approachable, but fierce when it comes to the important things in life, like justice, loyalty, and who's turn it is to go out for milk. Played rugby in high school. Friend, fantastic friend… Then more than friend…

Sherlock takes all of John in, and finally lands his eye on his bare left hand. He hates that John has never married. He has, basically, dedicated his life to Sherlock, only for the last two years, after Sherlock realized he just really didn't care enough and cared far too much, actually receiving much in return.

Sherlock still can't help but smile thinking of the day John actually said, "Damn sentiment, I'm just looking for sex." He might have been joking, but it was said at such an odd moment (discussing their relationship over tissue samples in the St. Bart's lab), that he never quite forgot.

But he's getting distracted_. New objective: satiate John's seemingly passionate desire to celebrate my survival to the age of forty-eight._

"I suppose… if you'd like we could do something… as long as it doesn't involve leaving the flat."

"Good enough for me, good thing I bought a cake at Tesco. Can I invite Molly over?"

"No."

"Fair enough. Into the kitchen, then!"

"And you know what? I was right about the books."

"No, you were not."

"Look up the series, if you like. That's why I went into crime, because I was good at it. It was a puzzle, I puzzle I always knew how to solve," Sherlock trails off, and he feels John looking at him in his wonderful way that says "I think what you just said was fantastic." He can't help but smile just a bit as he pokes at his mangle confectionary, one of those thick-white frosting numbers that look like piles of diabetes and taste like clogged arteries and angels singing. He had just finished relaying the cautionary tale of his sixteenth birthday party, and the rather terrible time he'd had that had turned rather… interesting.

"And that other boy, Dick, did you ever see him again?" John asked, his eyes flitting against his will to the skull on the mantelpiece.

"Why, yes, yes I have. A few years ago. He became an actor. Went rather poorly for him," Sherlock noted, not taking his eyes off of the half-eaten piece of cake on his plate. John froze, and he knew his face was doing "that thing," that we-both-know-what's-going-on-here-except-John-doesn't thing.

"What is Dick short for, John?"

"Richard… and didn't Mycroft say Mr. Br-"

John refuses to finish the sentence, and Sherlock smiles pleasantly, taking a deliberate bite of his cake. John has been enforcing strict Sherlock-if-you-don't-eat-you-aren't-getting-any rules of late, and it is rather annoying (Sherlock has found that, after trying it, he is rather accustomed to said past-times he had formerly ruled out).

"You met Moriarty when you were sixteen?"

"Yes."

"And his name really was Richard Brook?"

"Assumedly, yes."

"And you've know this all long, didn't you?"

"Most of the time, yes."

"And you never thought to share it with me?"

"I didn't think anything of it. It was just a note; he was obsessed with me even then, something decent to know, but not really crucial information."

"I consider that crucial information!"

Sherlock just laughs, finally pushing his plate away, taking a sip of his tea, and taking it in. Taking in the moment; John, and the silly candle he's put on the table, and the silly buttercream cake he's bought, and the silly face he's making because he had absolutely no idea.

"There is so much about you…" John says, a bewildered look in his eyes, "That I still don't know."

"And there's things you never will, and I'm sure that there are things I don't know about you, if you try hard enough to find one," Sherlock says quietly, smiling over the table, "But I suppose that's half the fun, isn't it?

John is very quiet for a moment, and they both take the second to reflect. Sherlock thinks about Moriarty, about how glad and at the same time how pained he is the he is dead; Glad that John is safe, still ever so slightly missing his great game. Suddenly, though, Sherlock feels the other man's hand slip into his, and, past foes forgotten, leave, something else staying it its place, something smooth and small. A box, velvet, small square, too narrow and high for cufflinks, and John would buy cufflinks, and Sherlock doesn't have earrings of any sort, so it must be a-

Sherlock doesn't have to open the box to see the bright gold banned, but he does anyway, and he's surprised by the tiny JW engraved in the center. John props an open box with a similar ring, initials SH engraved there.

"I've had them for a while. I figured now is as good a time as any, since it is your birthday," John says, fidgeting with his jumper sleeves, eyes shifting away, "I suppose we might as well make it official, right? I mean, I don't ever plan on leaving you, and you'd have a rather hard time going back to talking to the skull."

Sherlock simply stares at the rings, taking all this in. How did he not know they where there? They must have been in John's pocket, how had he not seen them? Still things he doesn't know, he supposes, and looks back down. Slowly, he slips the JW ring out of its silk bed, slipping it onto the ring finger of his left hand.

"…Fantastic," he says, and he would have said it a thousand times again just to see the smile John rewards him. He's learned to appreciate this, to appreciate the people who care about you, the things beyond the work. It's hard, yes, but it's worth it. Worth it for those smiles. Worth it for John.

There are the kisses, of course, and John even gets a little teary, and Sherlock has to force himself not to follow suit because, honestly, this is all a bit ridiculous. They'll tell Mrs. Hudson in the morning, they decide, first. However, just as Sherlock is lying down beside John, when he hears his phone on the bedside table.

Congratulations, I'm glad to see we finally had that happy announcement- and an actual happy birthday.

Forty-eighth time is the charm.

MH

Sarcasm doesn't suit you, brother, I would stay where you are more well-versed, such as dramatics and apathy.

SH

And thank you, I suppose.

SH

John is already asleep when Sherlock curls beside him, and, for the first time in a long time, Sherlock is beginning to think that, just maybe, he might like birthdays.

Better late than never.


End file.
